


i slithered here from eden (just to sit outside your door)

by thistleandthorn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged up Sansa, Arranged Marriage, But Perhaps Not with So Many Parentheses, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, For My Own Moral Well-Being, Non-Linear Narrative, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sanrion Pining, This has been done before, that's all this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25681246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistleandthorn/pseuds/thistleandthorn
Summary: (The last night they spend together, he has her laughing.)(He presses kisses to her ribcage, hands at the dip of her waist. She’s blushing all over, at her chest and her ears and her cheeks and her knees. Like a rose, he thinks.)(She can see what is happening before Tyrion and she calls out a warning to him. But then a heavy hand is closed over her mouth and she is being pulled away.)(Cersei is screaming his name and pointing. He is so transfixed by his beautiful sister made so ugly. Sansa is calling for him, too, but he can’t quite hear it over the commotion. When he finally turns to look, she is gone.)--Pressured by his goodfather, Robert Baratheon celebrates his friend, Eddard Stark, becoming his Hand by wedding Sansa Stark to Tyrion Lannister.The two begin to build a life together, stone by stone.Then Joffrey Baratheon is murdered, Tyrion imprisoned, and Sansa goes missing, presumed guilty, dead, or both.Now in service of the Dragon Queen, Tyrion returns to Winterfell to fight in the Long Night and husband and wife are set to reunite.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 56





	i slithered here from eden (just to sit outside your door)

The crypt at Winterfell was bathed in dancing, changing torchlight.

“Look at her, Ned,” Robert Baratheon said, stroking the tip of Lyanna’s cold stone finger, “Did you have to bury her in a place like this? She should be on a hill somewhere with the sun and the clouds above her.”

Eddard touched the king’s shoulder, soft, no longer ribboned with muscle, quiet, “She was my sister. This is where she belongs.”

Robert looked up at the rounded ceilings, the gray darkness. Eddard let his hand slip from his shoulder and fall to his side. Robert placed a feather in Lyanna’s outstretched hand and then turned to go, “She belonged with me,” anger still roiled.

He started up the narrow stairs, puffing with the effort, “I am all alone down there, Ned. You and me. You could pick up where Jon left off. Make sure I don’t drink myself to death.”

Eddard started, “Well, Your Grace—”

“Oh, and your daughter.” They had reached the top of the stairs, blinking in the relative light, “Sansa. How old is she now?”

“Eighteen last moonturn.”

“High time she was married.”

Ned nodded, smiling, “High time. Though, we are loathe to let her go.”

“Aye, but you must make her a match,” Robert said and they made their way back through Winterfell to the courtyard where the dregs of the royal party still lingered, “My goodfather had a thought on that.”

Eddard stiffened. Robbert clapped him on the back, “Ah, I know your thoughts about him but it’s a good match. The old man’s finally come to his senses and named Tyrion to be the future Warden of the West. And the Lannisters shit gold or haven’t you heard?”

They had reached the edge of the courtyard and watched as the grooms hurried to stable the horses, unload the trunks and travelling cases. Through the flurry, Eddard could see the man himself, stunted, ugly Tyrion Lannister talking with his Kingslaying brother. 

“I know that we always thought that Sansa and Joffrey would marry,” Robbert shook his head, “But, according to Tywin, we need the Tyrell gold more.”

Ned suddenly realized that this was not a proposal or a discussion or anything but a command.

“We thank you, Your Grace, for your favor.”

Robbert looked at him curiously, “Come now, Ned. Maybe we can still wed Arya and Tommen. Or Myrcella and your Robb. A better fit, anyway, perhaps?”

\--

_(For once, Sansa awakes first. She lets Tyrion slumber on, tells the maid that lights the brazier that they will breakfast alone this morning._

_By the time, Tyrion is shifting, blinking in the morning light, she is already sat up at the table, nibbling a peach, kept company by a book. He comes to the table in his nightclothes, a habit she cannot abide, still sleep-clouded. Stands next to her and leans his head against her shoulder tiredly, “I wish I could sleep all day. Pretend this wedding was not happening.”_

_She presses a kiss to his temple, “First, breakfast. The oats are getting cold.”)_

\--

“I am to what?” Tyrion spluttered.

Cersei leaned back, “Father has seen fit that you marry the Stark girl.”

“Poor girl,” he said, shaking his head.

“For once, we are in agreement,” Cersei said.

\--

_(“Things will get better, after this,” she says with a watery smile, tugs on the sleeves of his jacket so they sit straight on his arm._

_He kisses her, “Of course, they will.”)_

\--

“Tyrion Lannister!” Arya exclaimed first. Catelyn frowned at her, but Arya ignored it, “Mother, they cannot make her!”

Sansa sat silent. _What about Joffrey? What about becoming queen?_

“It’s a good match,” Catelyn said, though even she could not hide her displeasure, “He’s a good man.”

Arya argued for awhile more, “Make Father say no!” She finally stormed from the room.

Catelyn reached across to hold Sansa’s hand, “Your father and I were not a love match.”

 _But Father is Father, not the Imp,_ she thought, unbidden.

“Things were difficult for us, at first,” her mother continued, “but we built our life together, stone by stone. And look where we are now.” 

\--

_(“Darling, have you seen my ruby pendant?” Sansa calls._

_“No—” Tyrion fiddles with the clasp on his cloak, wrenching it down so he could refasten it, “Gods above, this damned thing—”_

_“Tyrion, Tyrion! Oh, by the Seven, let me do it.”)_

\--

It was an odd sensation, to be present for the negotiation of your own marriage. Robert, in his infinite wisdom, thought that discussions would not need to take place anywhere more formal than the dinner table. So they all sat, the Stark children glaring at him, his betrothed staring blankly ahead, her mother not bothering to conceal her contempt for the match, her father tossing concerned glances.

Cersei smirked beside him; Jaime occasionally jostled him with his elbows as if this was one long extended jape. Tyrion does not laugh.

His almost-wife was beautiful, truly. But she would not look at him, only straight ahead.

\--

_(“Stop fidgeting,” Sansa sighed, concentrating on refastening his pin. Tyrion tipped his head to look at the ceiling._

_“After the wedding,” Tyrion says, taking her hand and kissing it lightly, trying, failing to sound nonchalant, “I was thinking that we could take a trip.”_

_“A trip?” Sansa arches an eyebrow, “Where?”_

_“Oh, I don’t know. Wherever you would want to go,” Tyrion shrugs and Sansa purses her lips as the pin slips loose again, “Joffrey will be so tied up with Margaery, it might be the only opportunity we have for awhile—”_

_“Until we’re all burned to death by dragons?” Sansa asks, smiling slightly as she heard the pin click, smooths the shoulders of imagined wrinkles._

_“Well, I was not thinking of it_ precisely _like that—”_

_She takes his hand, knows he’s trying to help, build a bridge over the river of her grief, brushes her lips against his knuckles, “I think that would be lovely.”)_

\--

His second wedding day was a fine day indeed. Jaime came to watch him dress—red velvet doublet slashed with gold.

“A word of advice,” Jaime said casually, “Don’t get drunk at the feast.”

Tyrion rolled his shoulders, “I will try but if our fool of a goodbrother insists on a bedding ceremony, I will be forced to drain the Starks’ larder once and for all.”

The small sept was crowded, choked with people and the smell of incense and the tapering curls of smoke that drifted from the dozens of candles that lit the sanctuary.

When Sansa Stark entered, clothed in blue silk, hair undone, crowned in tiny white Northern flowers, upon her father’s arm, despite the neutrality of her expression, despite Ned Stark’s obvious regret, Catelyn’s conspicuous weeping, Cersei’s mockery, despite it all, he cannot help but think:

_She looks like springtime._

\--

_(They stand crushed together in the sept._

_“Lovely gown,” Sansa murmurs as Margaery sweeps by them, perfumed, “Looks like she’s floating.”_

_Tyrion tightened his grip on her hand and says aloud, without thinking, “I like you firmly on the ground.”)_

\--

The feast was better than expected. Plates piled high with roasted capon in orange sauce, pork and onion pies, baked apples, raspberry tarts, turnips whipped with butter, spiced almonds, honeyed wines. Sansa danced with Robb and Jon and her father and even one round each with Theon and Lord Manderly. Lord Tyrion did not offer and neither did she, and she was grateful.

The kitchens had made her lemon cakes topped with sugared violets.

“These are good,” Lord Tyrion said to her as he took a bite. She nodded, unsure of how to respond.

Her lord husband drank deeply from his goblet and halfway through the meal his words began to trip together. Cast her eyes about, the King being fed bits of bread by a maidservant, the Queen impassive, leaning into her brother, the other brother. Glanced back to Lord Tyrion, now pouring another cup.

\--

_(The feast is interminable. For all their dread, it is just mostly dull. And unbearably hot. Baking alive on the sun-drenched terrace._

_The whole display with the dwarves, he takes in with some detachment. Of course, he thinks, of course its this. Sansa stiffens, though, places a hand on his thigh, takes deep gulps of her wine. Watches her mother and brother’s murder playacted, her husband mocked, he can feel her burning beside him. Takes the hand from his leg, kisses it._

_Then the business with the wine and the serving and the bowing down, he takes it all with a sigh. Sansa’s face heats, though, as she leans down to pick up his cup._

_Then Joffrey is taking a sip of his own wine. Wine Tyrion poured. And he is purple, choking, collapsed, Cersei’s screams._

_The Seven Hells open up.)_

\--

The King called for a bedding, but Lord Tyrion begged it off, “Wouldn’t want to embarrass the girl further.” And the King was too drunk, too buried in the serving girl’s breasts to pursue anymore.

He did not bed her. Half relieved, half hurt, she sat on the edge of their bed.

She laid awake long after Lord Tyrion’s breath slowed into sleep. Her husband. The ceremony itself had been nice, she was glad that she and Jeyne had practiced it the night before so she did not stutter or trip, her mother had ensured that her favorite Maiden hymns were performed, and if kneeling for him to cloak her was a bit embarrassing, no one but Joffrey had laughed.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

His eyes were so intense as he said the vows, boring into hers, it was like he meant them.

\--

_(She can see what is happening before Tyrion and she calls out a warning to him. But then a heavy hand is closed over her mouth and she is being pulled away.)_

\--

He offered her this, “I will not bed you until you are ready, my lady.”

“My lord, it is my duty—” Her expression is wide and confused.

“I understand but I am no raper.”

She seemed to consider it, “My lord—”

“Tyrion, please.”

“I am tired, Tyrion.”

“That is most understandable, my lady.” 

So they lay side by side, not touching, still fully clothed. With her next to him, it was easy to see where her imperfections lay. The unevenness of her nose, the way her hair, undone, frizzed slightly in the heat of their chambers, the blemish under her ear.

He realized he was staring, turned to focus instead on the pattern of the bed canopy. When he willed himself to look again, she was asleep.

\--

_(Cersei is screaming his name and pointing. He is so transfixed by his beautiful sister made so ugly. Sansa is calling for him, too, but he can’t quite hear it over the commotion. When he finally turns to look, she is gone.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I posting this now...when I have an unfinished longfic and a sequel to edit...idk man. I am also breaking my own rule of waiting until I'm done writing a fic before posting...I want to be 100% clear I have no set plans for this yet and no idea where this is going...bear with me. XD 
> 
> Title is from Hozier's "From Eden", a Sanrion ballad if ever there was one. :)
> 
> EDIT: I accidentally titled this fic the same as ANOTHER Sanrion fic by the incomparable attonitos_gloria. Go check THAT one out! Thank you lilium_convallium for pointing it out!


End file.
